We Were Beautiful Once

by Joseph Carvalko

  Jang once again dismissed himself. It was nearly noon when he returned. “Gentlemen, we would like to escort you to our next destination, if you would be so kind.”

  “Where’d that be?” Freedman inquired.

  “We would like you to meet a few of our representatives at the Ministry of National Defense.”

  Nick and Seymour looked at each other, turned toward the door and saw a man in black motioning them to follow back to the limos. The cars sped off, lights flashing, overtaking vehicles at speeds topping 150 kilometers. In fifteen minutes they had reached the Korean Ministry of National Defense.

  The doors of the limo swung open. Soldiers with M-16s slung over their shoulder guarded the entrance. The men exited the car and were escorted into a marbled lobby the size of a small office building. A man in an officer’s uniform approached with his hands extended. He smiled and addressed the Americans in barely understandable English, “Give me passports.” The two gave up their passports, and another man in fluent English asked each of them to stand against a green sheet before he swung around a large box camera mounted on a tripod.

  The Americans were given badges with their names and picture, which they affixed to their lapels. Nick quipped, “Must mean something like VIP.” A soldier escorted them up a flight of wide stairs, along a short gray granite hall and into a cavernous sitting room with a red and white oriental rug. At one end was an oversized oak desk. A score of chairs lined the walls. A diminutive gray-haired man stood behind the desk. Freedman entered and the man came walking in his direction, aided by a cane. Nick looked down and saw the man was wearing a prosthetic. Handing his business card to Freedman, he declared, “I am Oh Jin Woo, Korean Minister of Defense.” Behind the Americans a troupe of ten men filed in, consisting of generals, colonels and civilians in dark business suits. One man introduced himself as the CEO of Daesun, the largest Korean electronics conglomerate.

  The first ten minutes were spent introducing each other. The defense minister made salutary remarks that lasted another ten minutes, followed by Seymour, who responded like he had been dispatched by the U.S. State Department. Seymour ended by smiling widely for the minister. The Koreans turned to Nick. He offered that he had been a veteran and without any official imprimatur, he extended America’s appreciation for Korea’s commitment in Vietnam. The officers smiled gratuitously and Nick turned his attention to the minister.

  The minister spoke about how grateful he was that the Americans made the trip. After another forty minutes of ritual speeches, during which jet lag and boredom combined to make Nick’s eyes droop and his head bob, the minister concluded. He smiled at Seymour. Then with good cheer and in perfect California English, asked, “Will you gentlemen join me tonight?”

  “Yes, I’d hoped that we could attend a traditional Korean dinner, a kisaeng?” Seymour winked knowingly at Nick.

  The supper was fit for a Korean emperor and the music for its royal court. Generals, colonels and businessmen and the cast of characters from the earlier meeting were in attendance. In a large circle, each sat with a pair of young women. The night was filled with food; live music for dancing was supplied by an accordionist and singing drummer. By the end of the evening, no one could stand, neither Minister, General, chefs, hostesses, nor their esteemed American guests. Nick felt jovial, careless—the trial was another world away.

  Dawn was breaking over Seoul’s Han River when Nick and Seymour, each joined by a hostess, stumbled toward the limo that would return them to the Marriott. As the car drew away from the hotel entrance, Nick discovered the unbearably young, unbearably beautiful Rachel Choi, her alias for such occasions, standing next to him.

  “I go to room,” the woman said in barely understandable English, as she gripped his arm.

  “Not with me. I go alone,” Nick answered firmly, trying to disentangle himself. He saw Seymour disappear into an elevator with a girl equally young, equally beautiful.

  “No, cannot do. Must go,” was her reply.

  She looked at Nick on the verge of crying.

  “Must go or get fired. Please take me... to room. So they see me go.”

  Nick caught on. “All right, come stay for a little while, but then you go. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick and she stood perfectly still as the elevator accelerated to the sixth floor. Nick opened the door to his room, removed his jacket, loosened his tie and sat at a overlooking the Han River snaking its way through the city. Earlier in the day, he had set up his chessboard, and changing focus from the dark outline of the river, he slid white king’s pawn K-3 to K-4. He felt Rachel watching him, and then saw her extend a small, delicate hand to black queen’s bishop sliding it diagonally to the far side of the board: checkmate.

  The unexpected move raised Nick’s eyes. “You know how to play?”

  “Yes, little.”

  “Where’d you learn?”

  “University, go to university, learn English, learn chess.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “Yes, student now, earn tuition working for Minister.”

  Nick began understanding this cultural exchange on a new level. “I’m impressed. You seem like a smart girl.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Nick.”

  “No. Call me Nick. But you must be going, Rachel, now.”

  “Can stay if you would like me, Nick.”

  “Don’t think that’d be a good idea.”

  “Ok, I call desk for taxi?”

  Nick listened without comprehending to the melodies of Rachel’s voice as she spoke into the phone. Bidding him goodbye, she left. As he watched her shut the door, he thought, “If she’s a day over eighteen, I’m a drunken sailor.”

  The next morning Nick and Seymour began a series of meetings with the Koreans to discuss the kind of support they needed. The calendar on Nick’s watch read 9/8. In a windowless room on the second floor of the headquarters, they sat across a glass top table from Lee Dae-Ho, a two star general, and Park Dong-Min, a full colonel. The men discussed terms of engagement which, if successful, would begin Freedman’s representation. Seymour did most of the talking—to do with trust, control over the various matters, assurances that if he represented the government that there would be no illegal schemes, payoffs, espionage or other high crimes that foreign agents need to “wet the bed over.” The Koreans afforded no comfort, responding evasively. Freedman could not get the unqualified answer he needed. Seymour had told Nick earlier what he had to hear, but the Koreans could not, or would not, speak for their larger constituency. Freedman remained stoic, but in his usual way chain-smoked—after each deep drag on unfiltered Chesterfields, he’d let the cigarette burn into a large, tenuous ash that would hang until the slightest air current tore it off. And it would fall onto his pin striped suit or the general’s Persian rug. It was Freedman’s way of telling the men that he did not give “two shits” if he represented them. After four hours, the meeting ended in a stalemate as to how the representation would play out.

  The next day the Americans were summoned to Colonel Park’s office to discuss what Nick hoped to find in Korea. They were joined by Yoon Sung Min, an undersecretary from the Korean State Department. Nick summarized the Girardin case and a laundry list of questions, indicating that he would settle for a few crucial leads.

  “Colonel Park, I’d like to know how to read several maps that I’ve brought with me. In particular there are some marks that I think could be important. And, of course, if anyone has information about whether any Americans were left behind, I would like to know that, too. And, if there were American’s left behind, why? Lastly, but importantly, do you have any records concerning a soldier by the name of Roger Girardin or his whereabouts?”

  The Colonel scribbled notes in a black bound notebook. “Mr. Castalano, I am not sure we can help, but we will do our best. Do you have any more questions you can share with me and secretary Min at this time?”

  Nick reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a manila fo
lder from which he removed and unfolded three maps. “I think these are maps of Camp 13. You must be familiar with this camp along the Yalu.”

  “Yes, notorious for inhumane conditions during the war under Commandant Cho Tat Wah.”

  Nick turned over one of the maps. He waited until the colonel and the secretary perused it before pointing to a hexagon. “What do these symbols mean?... burial grounds?”

  The two Koreans each made notes. The Colonel said, “Mr. Castalano, we have no answers right now. But if we could get a copy of these, we will get back to you if we find something that may help.”

  After the meeting, the Americans were driven back to the hotel. That evening, there was a knock on Nick’s door.

  “Hello, Nick.”

  “Rachel!”

  “Come to pick up package from downstairs for my boss, and I wanted to see how you doing. Are you invite me? We play chess?”

  Nick eyed her up and down. A white flowered dress fit tightly around her neck and tiny waist before falling below her creamy white knees.

  Nick stepped out of the way. Rachel walked over to the table where the chess pieces sat from the night she parried Nick’s errant move.

  “How’s school?”

  “I take one course, English.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Don’t have major.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I... twenty-one.”

  “Wow, just a kid.”

  “Kid?”

  “Yeah, very young woman.”

  “You have drink, Nick, beer?”

  “Kentucky whisky, it’s on the bar.”

  Rachel got up, unwrapped two tumblers and poured a generous portion of whisky, a splash of water.

  “Let’s play game, Nick. I take white, you black.”

  Nick smiled. He looked beyond Rachel and at the dresser where a single white gardenia rose from a thin vase and then turned to the window and saw the Han River as a black ribbon separating the city. “An odd start, but okay.”

  Rachel arranged the pieces while Nick watched, sipping his whisky. She moved the white king’s pawn to K-3. He mirrored her with his black king’s pawn to K-3.

  She moved the queen diagonally to the edge of the board.

  Nick thought for a moment, then moved the queen’s rook Q-4.

  She quickly moved the king’s bishop diagonally to the edge of the board.

  The board began to reel as Nick made a swipe for his knight. It had become so difficult to stay focused, and he felt so tired. Rachel’s face, beautiful, young, blurred and loomed, then blurred again. Nick could feel the room tipping.

  “Mr. Nick. Easy. You want I stay, Nick, no worries.”

  “Yes, but no. It’s best you go.” He thought he may have hurt her feelings as he walked over to the bed. He saw her unhurriedly leave her chair grabbing the sequined purse she had hung on the back. In slow motion, he watched her move toward the door before he fell back, eyes closed.

  “Good night, Nick. Nick, good... ”

  Nick did not respond.

  The next morning the Americans sat in the windowless room again. Nick’s head was in his hands.

  “You all right, Nick?” asked Seymour.

  “Yeah, too much whisky.”

  “Not a closet drinker, are you?” Seymour jibed.

  Nick tried smiling. He was about to mention Rachel, and how he did not remember getting into bed, did not remember undressing, but Colonel Park and General Lee entered and extended a curt good morning.

  Lee addressed Freedman. “Sir, I would like to start today’s meeting with a list of matters we had hoped that you could help with.”

  “General, sir, our earlier meeting left unresolved if the representation could meet my requirements.”

  “I assure you that we will meet your requirements.” The general paused. “But these things take time, as you, a man of great experience, know.” He paused to sip from a cup. “I need not restate our need for contacts in Washington, such as you could provide. We might consider you, exclusively, to help us soften the effects of poor past judgment.”

  “General, some “poor judgments” are considered crimes by our government.”

  “But hopefully you could broker a political solution to our alleged arms exports to Africa—that is if they conflicted with U.S. Export Law. Delisting denies us important access to armaments essential to our security.”

  The men spoke around the details once again, and within the hour the meeting concluded when the general announced that he had to attend a scheduled meeting. The Americans returned to the hotel, Seymour saying, “I am getting bored with the pace at which the Koreans do business.”

  On September 12, at approximately 8:30 a.m. Freedman received a call from the administrative assistant to the Chief of Staff to the President of the Republic of Korea. She requested a meeting at 11 at the Blue House. A car would pick them up at 10:30. When they arrived they were escorted to a conference room with pink and white flowered wall paper and several porcelain vases sitting on highly polished mahogany tables. A large octagonal table sat in the middle of the room atop a white and blue Persian rug. At least fifteen minutes passed before two men walked in, one of whom was Colonel Park. “This is Mr. Yoo, Chief of Staff to the President of the Republic of Korea.” Yoo, extending both arms, palms upward, said, “Please be seated.” He indicated that he had been fully briefed and that he would try and answer any questions Nick had. Nick again sketched out the case.

  When Nick finished, Yoo nodded to Park who supplied the Americans with a synopsis of the war, particularly the October through December timeframe. Nick knew the history. But Park covered a more detailed account of events that were experienced by the ROK in conjunction with units of the 19th Regiment, especially in the vicinity of the village of Pakch’on and the Ch’ongch’on River between October 25 and November 27, 1950. They suggested that the information would be useful in putting the Girardin disappearance into a battle context, since he was last seen in these parts November 25, 1950.

  Park spoke like an historian. “Mr. Castalano, I understand that the man you are looking for was in the 8th Army 24th Division, 19th Regiment, Company C. Our records show that therefore he was near the Ch’ongch’on River valley, which varies in width from six to thirty kilometers depending on who’s measuring.” Park went on for fifteen minutes without taking a breath. Nick took notes. Then all became quiet, signaling that Park had finished.

  Nick asked, “Mr. Park, do you have any information about the maps?”

  “We obviously have many thousands of such maps. We were able to confirm the ones you produced are of Camp 13. The one actually labeled Camp 13 shows a road near the camp area which looks like a long road for troop movements leading to a crossing point into Manchuria, and the symbols seem to coincide with our intelligence reports at the time of major minefields we may have laid later in the war. Our maps do not show such fields, but an analysis of our records indicates that those were areas where the U.N. forces were targeting such ordinance. I am afraid I have nothing further at this time.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” said the Chief of Staff.

  “Sir, once again, could you tell us if your records tell you anything about the soldier named Girardin in Camp 13?” Nick asked.

  “Well, there was one entry in an intelligence record that indicated that if we encountered a Private Roger Girardin or Sergeant Joseph Johns, we were to return them to Seoul CID, in connection with a classified report. Other than that we... ”

  Yoo raised his hand and then quickly completed the sentence for Park, “... we have nothing to report. No, we have no other record. Maybe you need to inquire at the U.N. Armistice Commission.”

  “Do you know if there was any unit mentioned?”

  “No, a rather superficial document. I wish I could share it, but it is classified,” Yoo countered.

  Yoo lit a cigarette, blowing smoke in Seymour’s direction. Seymour took a deep drag on a short butt and doused it i
n his coffee cup. Yoo rose from his chair and opened his arms, signaling to Park that the meeting was over. He extended a handshake to his guests wishing them a safe trip. “Colonel Park and I have to attend a meeting now. If you have any further questions, feel free to direct them to my attention. You have my card.”

  In the week following the return to the U.S., Freedman made several visits to the Korean Embassy in Washington to entertain whether to represent the government. In the end, he applied for foreign agent status and set upon representing the ROK in the U.S. His first assignment had to do with illegal arms exports.

  Machines Do Not Lie

  ON THE PLANE FROM KOREA, NICK MULLED over Park’s comment about the long road for troop movements leading to a crossing point into Manchuria. Yoo had obviously cut Park short. There was plainly more information than Yoo, or more accurately, the Korean government was letting on. The fact that the symbols coincided with minefields, and that the U.N. forces were targeting the area for ordinance was also curious. Stopping in the office on the way home, he left the map with a note in big black letters for Mitch: Find an expert on signs, symbols, and hexes!

  When Mitch had seen Nick’s note to find out about signs, symbols and hexes, he took the most obvious first step for a recent post-grad: he called his friend, Bill Norgren, who was writing up his PhD in Mayan Hieroglyphics and asked if he could be pointed in a direction to figure out what the hexes meant. Norgren suggested that it could be some kind of language, a hieroglyph or ideogram he was unfamiliar with and passed Nick onto his friend Barry Eisenberg, a PhD linguist at Fordham University who knew something about codes and semiotics. Mitch faxed a portion of the map to Eisenberg who returned the next day. “I figure that the hexes might be a take-off on the symbol that is associated with the first Chinese character set. The legendary King Fu Xi from over 7000 years ago invented an ancient symbol referred to as the eight hexagons.”

  “It’s no surprise they’re Chinese in origin,” Mitch reasoned. “They were found on a map that may have been drafted by the Chinese. But what do they signify?”